


Standing Ovation

by uglywombat



Category: Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Colleagues - Freeform, F/M, Musical Theatre Nerd, Reader-Insert, Secret Relationship, Smut, Unprotected Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 01:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20037931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: Chris Evans is making his professional musical theatre debut in 'Little Shop of Horrors'. You are a member of the orchestra. Embroiled in a secret relationship, Chris comes down to the orchestra's dressing room.





	Standing Ovation

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to first like to stipulate that I don’t live or work in Boston, nor do I play any woodwind instruments. However, I do work in orchestra pits for shows and so I’m basing all my knowledge on my experience… it’s probably wildly inaccurate for America so I apologise. 
> 
> I know a lot of people aren’t big fans of RPF but this idea has been egging me on for months and months and it is starting to get a little distracting when I’m sitting in the pit. I know Mr. Evans is a big musical theatre nerd, YAS!, so here we are. 
> 
> Little technical term definition. A sitzprobe is the first time the orchestra and cast come together and sing through the show. It’s not a rehearsal, more of a run of the musical numbers. I love sitzprobe, it’s probably my favourite stepping stone in the process of putting a production together. There’s something magical about putting two separately rehearsal puzzle pieces together and it just comes together.
> 
> The theatre dark just means it’s a night off. WOOT! No show. No playing. You get to be a normal human being. You might get to eat dinner at a normal time. 
> 
> It’s basically porn, inspired by dirty thoughts in an orchestra pit, that Lion look and musical theatre appreciation. If that’s not your thing I would really recommend not reading this, or most of my stuff because I’m a hoe… And if you are into it, welcome to the club and I really hope you enjoy this.

Your neck cracked in that satisfying, tension-releasing fashion as you drew the cleaning cloth through the joint one last time before setting the final piece into your clarinet case and righting your head. You twisted your lower back surveying the baritone sax and bass clarinet sitting on the table waiting to be dismantled. 

You didn’t want to be here, thirty minutes after the final curtain, dismantling and meticulously cleaning instruments. Your colleagues were already at the bar, probably on their second round. You found yourself humming ‘Suppertime’ before mentally kicking yourself and increasing the volume of the Google Home, ‘Lemonade’ drowning out the innocuous tune. If you didn’t get it out of your head before you left the theatre, it would haunt you all night.

Your phone vibrated obnoxiously on the table beside you and you smiled at the text. 

** _Are you still downstairs?I Is the coast clear?_ **

You smiled and quickly replied before turning back to the bass clarinet and started to pull off the mouthpiece turning your attention to removing your reed. 

You were trying to play this relationship cool, but you couldn’t dismiss the gnawing anxiety shadowing your every move. It was scandalous and could easily see you fired and quickly blacklisted from all the major Boston theatres if the producers were to find out. He would be fine; Boston’s golden child. You though, you were a measly contracted musician with your career on the line. If you couldn’t work here you would be forced back to New York or worst, back on the national tour circuit. 

You ran the cleaning cloth through the bell, a cold beer practically singing to you from down the road as you placed the bass clarinet’s bell into the case and closed it. Three instruments down, one more to go. 

“Hey.” 

You smiled and turned to see Chris leaning against the doorway, watching you, his eyes bright. 

“Hey yourself.” He pulled you into his arms and held you tightly. You could feel the anxiety and adrenaline seeping from his pores. He smelled good, having showered after bows, clean and fresh. His hands cupped your face as he pressed his lips to yours. He tasted of cigarettes and beer. “I shouldn’t be too long,” you said pulling away returning to your routine. “You killed it tonight. Your first standing ovation? You must be elated.” And it was true. Chris was a natural on stage, fulfilling his dream role as ‘The Dentist’ in “Little Shop of Horrors”. He belonged on the stage. 

He chuckled, pressing up against your back as you started to pull the bari sax apart. “It’s such a rush,” he purred, placing soft kisses against your neck. 

“Chris, we can’t,” you pleaded, turning and gently pushing him back, “what if someone sees?”

He sighed, frustration bubbling to the surface, his hands resting on your waist. “I’m sick of having to hide.”

Your hands came to rest against his luscious beard, your fingers caressing the soft hair. “I know, me too, but I signed a contract, Chris. If they find out we are seeing each other I could lose my job.”

“Yeah, I know.” You couldn’t help but pout as he pulled away and stomped to the door in frustration like a petulant teenager. This stubborn, emotionally-charged side of Chris was not new to you; the result of his anxiety. “I just… I’m tired of sneaking around with you.” And as quickly as he had stormed to the door he was back in front of you, his hands gripping your own in his. “I want to take you to the bar after a show, unwind with you. I want to be able to sit next to you…” 

The sound of the cleaner down the hall polishing the floor pulled him from his soliloquy. He sulkily sat at the table and watched on as you diligently cleaned your bari sax, drawing the cleaning cloth through the neck, your eyes occasionally meeting his. His smile was weak and forced.

Your relationship had started with some mild flirting, mostly on his part. The connection and chemistry had been evident to everyone when the cast had joined the orchestra for dinner after sitzprobe, the first time you had met. Your musical director had pulled you aside not long after and quietly gave you a friendly reminder that inter-company relationships were seriously frowned up and you assured him that you were just friends. But you knew it was so much more. 

The first time he had kissed you were behind the bar after opening night. Drunken, clandestine kisses behind the bins, the cigarette hanging precariously in his fingers. From there, your relationship had progressed to covert coffee dates during your breaks during your long days of teaching. The evenings the theatre was dark, Chris would whisk you out to the suburbs where you would cook dinner together and watch TV or a movie. 

You had wanted to resist because you knew deep down that it could all blow up in your face. But Chris made you feel beautiful and wanted. Perhaps when the season closed you would be able to be more public, until then, you had to keep your relationship in the shadows. 

The tension was palpable as you considered each other, the sound of the floor polisher concluding its path of the orchestra pit floor before being dragged up the stairs. 

“I know you’re frustrated, Chris,” you said moving towards him and your hands gripping his biceps. “There’s only a month left of the season. Then we won’t have to hide.”

He firmly placed his lips against yours, your body putty in his hands as he stood and pressed you against the desk. It was just so easy to give in to him, his consummate and all-consuming ministrations and soft, soul-sucking kisses calming and addictive. 

You knew the cleaners would not return to this level and the only security camera on this level was directed at the only point of entry. “Fuck it,” you huffed, hands immediately going to the buttons on his sinfully tight jeans, your lips crushed against his. You fought to remove his pants and briefs, Chris stepping out of them as he backed you against the lockers. 

His fingers nimbly undid the buttons your shirt as you pushed your pants down and kicked them across the room, your lips fighting to gain control. His hands grasped at your breasts as you ground your hips against his erection. 

Chris’ eyes locked with yours as his fingers swept across your damp panties. “You’re so responsive, sweetheart,” his deep voice, husky as he pushed the feeble cotton to the side and brushed his finger against your lips. “Have you thought about fucking me down here before?” The rich, Boston timbre of his voice came through thick and heavy when he was turned on. 

“Once or twice,” you smirked, your hand scarcely grazing his cock, your lip caught between your teeth as he lightly gasped at the contact. “I kinda like the idea of sneaking into your dressing room during the interval and making good use of your vanity.”

The salacious moan that dripped from his lips was enough to drive you wild. “Fuck, sweetheart, you sure a something.” Your tongues battled against the other as he led you back to the sturdy table and planting you down onto the table. His hands cupped your face, as they often did, controlling the tempo and dynamic of your kiss. “Be a good girl and take off your panties.”

You could have come right there and then. His voice was scorching, deep and dominant, and he was well aware of the effect it had on you. You of course complied, you needed him. 

“Good girl,” he praised as he wrapped your legs around his hips, his cock slowly entering you, stretching your walls around his ample width. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he purred, his hands grasping at your hair, slowly moving his hips. 

Your mouth hung gaping, his cock luxuriously dragging along your walls, just the way you liked. If Chris was anything, he was acutely aware of what you did and didn’t like. God, you wanted to call out but you knew that any sounds would flow through into the pit and be audible in the theatre, where you could just hear the stagehands clearing the stage. 

Deft fingers pressed against your clit, precipitating your need to press your lips to Chris’. “I’m not going to last long,” he crooned against your lips, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” His fingers pushed on in their assault of your taut clit, just the way he knew would drive you over the precipice.

He was heaven, the feel of his cock rasping along your walls, hitting that clandestine jewel, the high only drawing nearer. His lips always grasping at your skin or your lips. His hand gripping onto your flesh, your breasts whilst his fingers never resigning their dance on your clit. 

“I know you’re close, honey.” Oh god, he crooned against your ear, his lips and tongue frisking the skin along your neck. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”

You wanted to come, you needed to come. You could feel his movements sharpening as he chased his own high. He needed to let go, release the pent-up energy from his performance, the anxiety he allowed to eat him. 

You knew he would take care of you later. You would probably bypass the bar completely and go home with him. You’d lazily shower together, your caresses leisurely and considered. He would insist on going down on you, holding you over the precipice until you were a sodden, crazed mess begging for release. Who were you to deny him that?

In the morning you would share a lazy breakfast, sharing knowing looks over the newspaper as he drank his tea and you inhaled your coffee. You would argue over who would do the washing up before stacking the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen together. If you had the time he would probably fuck you in the kitchen, or the laundry, or on the stairs, depending on where he caught you. Before you would waste the rest of the morning away taking Dodger for a walk or cuddling on the couch. 

God, you longed for those moments before you would return to the theatre for the matinee, where you would pretend like nothing was going on. Like your feelings for each other were fanciful. 

“Stay with me,” he whispered, drawing you from your thoughts, his fingers pinching your clit. It was enough to pull you over the edge, your walls clamping tightly around his cock, your high reached. He hungrily kissed you, stifling your cries as you came hard. 

Chris slammed hard into you, spilling deep inside you, his fingers clinging onto your thighs for dear life, brought on by the pulsating walls torturing his cock. He remained in you as you both fought to catch your breaths, sharing soft kisses, fingers gently running through each other's hair. 

You helped each other dress and put your cases in your locker for the night. Chris left first, leaving you in the orchestra’s dressing room to your thoughts. God, you were falling hard and fast for him. It made your head spin, how easy it was to let him in. 

You wait some time before finding the courage to extract yourself from the safety of the dressing room, your bag hung over your shoulder. You found Chris waiting in the shadows outside the stage door, taking a deep drag from the cigarette between his lips, hunched over himself. He offered you a small smile before you followed him out onto the main drag. 

“Come on, I’m going to take you home and I’ll make you breakfast in bed,” he said taking your hand in his and leading you down the street from the theatre towards his car. 

“Oh god,” you gasped, “please don’t cook for me. I nearly died from those eggs you made me.” 

Chris threw his head back, gifting you the beautiful, jovial and genuine laugh you had longed to hear all day. “They weren’t that bad.”

You chuckled, wrapping your arm around his waist. “Actually, they were. How about I teach you to cook without accidentally killing anyone.” 

Your heart stilled as he stopped and faced you. “When this season is done I’m going to bring you to family dinner and you’re going to meet my mom. We’re going to do this properly. No more hiding.”

“I’d love that.” Your heart was full to bursting as his lips met yours softly, your arms wrapping around each other. 

Neither of you aware of the paparazzi concealed in the shadows, their camera clicking as they caught your private moment. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Is it safe to show my face? I really hope you enjoyed it. Comments and vegetable pelting is welcome 😉


End file.
